Zenith
by EYESviolet
Summary: After the war, Harry Potter's previously glamorous lifestyle has faded. Years have passed, and it will take more or less than a pair of tense eyes and a shock of pale, waterlogged hair to make him realize that there is more to life. Canon until epilogue.
1. Rebirth

ZENITH

_a highest point or state; culmination._

0o8o0

As a child, you always liked the _What does not belong? _column in the magazines. They made you think; about the differences between people. About the in-betweens of _"freaks! The lot of you!" _and _"respectable people," _she'd uttered, nose lifting.

You'd had two of these pages, a long time ago. You can definitively remember one – five varying red birds and one dark orange one. A little obvious, you'd thought – it spoke volumes that you received the ones that frustrated Dudley. The others you cannot remember as well, but you do recall a little blue-green crab, its cartoon eyes cheery and faded, from the countless times your fingers brushed over the little aquatic icon.

You are reminded of it now, as you stand there, a cool, trickling breeze tossing your hair; the sunset, luminescent orange, burning through your closed lids. You allow them to drift open again, and you're momentarily stilled by the thunderous surge of hot light entering your eyes. You blink harshly and look down – down at the white-pebbled shoreline, interspersed with miniature fields of dirt and sudden sprouts of watery greens. The ground melts down into water, and as you look up, you are again struck by the vastness of the liquid-black lake. The water is very still – the breeze is not enough to stir it – and you admire the flawless architecture of the topmost towers that are reflected in it. Your true home.

You realize that you wish you were angry, that it's ending this way.

You're not.

You're eerily calm, though. Numb. You feel as though you once did – when you walked into the Forbidden Forest to meet your fate in the form of a spider-fingered man, face flat and white and eyes red.

The recollections of that feeling – aloneness, save for the burn of your scar; it triggers you into moving forward, one step.

_They tell me, shaking their heads:_

"_You should be kinder… You are somehow furious."_

_I used to be kind. It didn't last long._

The water that soaks into your shoes feels like death.

It is welcome.


	2. Mean

**Warnings: **This will be a SLASH story. If you are unfamiliar with internet lingo – This is about a homosexual relationship. Between two men. If this isn't your cup of tea, kindly leave.

There will be slashyness (obviously), non-con (all off-screen), adult language, adult situations, and frankly some depressing shit. (See the word ANGST above? Yeah, that.)

**Author's Notes: **Hello! (: Long time, no see. Well, I've never actually SEEN any of you, because that would be… creepy, but you get my point. I have been caught up in numerous things as well as constantly hacking away at my impenetrable wall of writer's block. This will be my large attempt to finally get over it, so if my writing gets squicky at times, bear with me. This is also my first official attempt at slash, and while it's really not that different than het, I just figured I'd let you know. Enjoy. (:

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter the series, or any of its plotlines or characters. Neither do I own Yevtushenko's works (in the previous chapter/prologue, _Rebirth_.)

0o8o0

At first, everything is calm.

And while you drift, you wonder why you should care that the water is too cold, or that the underside of the world is not as picturesque as you imagined it would be.

It has been a moment since your feet left the uneven bottom, and you kick out slightly. Why, you are not sure.

Your eyes sting and grow blurry, already fogged by the grime of the afternoon water.

Your saved breath is beginning to recede; it doesn't trouble you, not at first.

Your eyes roll hellwards, towards the drier, uglier part of the world. You are surprised, but not alarmed, by how far you are from the surface.

It only takes a second, however.

The second where you realize you are out of air - that your lungs are aching and throbbing for sustenance.

It occurs to you that maybe this is not the way.

You think about it for a short instant, and you realize, I don't want this.

It all flashes by in an instant.

You are out of breath, and far from the surface, and you hear the distinctive chatter of grindylows below you.

You had left your wand by the lakeside upon a dramatic hindsight.

Your limbs fly out as you attempt to beat the water away from you. Survival is a sudden and wanton need, and you lust for it more than you have ever lusted.

Sticky, spindly fingers latch onto your ankles like slimy ropes.

This is when you truly begin to panic.

You flail wildly. The water rushes past your head in great whooshes, and your throat is constricting, and you are being pulled down. You duly note that you were not born an aquatic creature, and you have no place at the bottom of a lake.

It does not take you long to come to the conclusion that you are going to die, whether you want to or not.

You do not feel numb like you did before. You feel unrested, and alert, and like everything has gone from neutral to bad in a very short space.

The myriad of grindylows weave around you, biting and sticking and stinging. You fight them feebly.

A great current of water sloshes past, to your left. There is a distinctive sound, high-pitched and sharp, like those of the merpeople. In your muddled state, it does not bother you that this one sounds particularly off-key.

The grindylows are suddenly there, and then they are gone.

A map of white skin, unscaled and smooth, swims before your eyes.

There is a face, and a great swirling mass of whitish hair. A death-pale face, and out of which, two searing eyes, wide open and almost curious in an animalistic way. They are that familiar shade of gray. A shade that you have only seen once in your life - in the gaze of your youngest foe.

Your lungs shudder and fall still.

The eyes and white skin snap forward, and there are searingly warm hands under your arms. You are dragged upwards through the water at an alarming rate, but it doesn't bother you much, as you head lolls and your limbs fall limp.

Your head breaks the surface so hard that for a moment, the cold mass below almost seems like the sky.

You rasp, sucking in, but only find the water still lodged in your throat, like a column of jealous death.

The air around you is warm and seemingly welcome, but it rejects your lungs, barred by the gargling of your throat.

You are thrown to the damp shore, roughly, landing spread-eagled upon the crumbling dirt and sand, and the pricks of nature's knick-knacks below you sting like sudden fire.

A live, heaving warmth, emanating washes of cold water, sinks low over you.

Everything is sticky - especially so the sudden mouth that is at your own, their teeth clacking with yours. A hot breath fills your mouth, and hot hands find your chest, like they're searching for something.

Blackness looms all around you, and your eyes are far back into your own head.

There is an impatient, yet vague, pain in your chest. And then another. And another.

A pounding so hard that your ribs seem like they are bending inwards.

A steady rush of oxygen floods the cavity of your mouth and throat, and the water is suddenly urgent.

A heavy, muscle-wrenching shudder runs through your body.

You are shoved over sideways, and a cold, sickly stream of water runs from your mouth; suddenly freezing without the heat of the mouth and hands on you.

Your lungs work and work, and - at last!

You heave in a shallow breath, quickly. Then another, this one deeper.

Your heart is racing horribly, and the urgent, damp thumping in your ears is nauseating.

You turn your head slightly, towards the immense dark shadow of the lake.

He is there long enough to cough out a rattling, rasping noise. Like he's retching on the very air.

And then he plunges away, back beneath the water, and he is gone.

0o8o0

You think back on it now, as you contemplate the Gryffindor tapestries sprawled across the stone wall before you. It's a little sickening, and a little comforting, being back here. Even though it's been years, and you most certainly don't belong.

It's difficult to sleep, and even more difficult to think.

Your memory is dark and foggy, especially of the thing's you'd seen. You can recall the original peace of the strange, cold world, and the moment you realized that it did not call to you like it had before. You can remember the distinctive white of blonde hair rippling through water, and half-mean eyes that appeared close to his own, in a near challenge. You can feel the sharp, slapping pain of breaking the surface as though it happened moments ago, and the bite of sharp, heated, moist teeth as they scraped your own.

Your mind conjures up the far-too vivid recollection of the watery vomit and the first breath. More distinctly, the mirroring breath that followed it, made by a nearby pair of lungs. It had been raspy, and deadened, like they hadn't been used in far too long for such a purpose.

The splash of the disappearing figure.

You simply cannot understand how Draco Malfoy works its way into any of this.

0o8o0

**Ta-da! :D **

**Thank you for alerting and/or reviewing, Dora Malena and chrissytingting. It means the world to me, quite honestly. (:**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please do review. (:**

**-E.v.**


	3. Hand

**Author's Note: Gah! I sincerely apologize for the time this took to get out. I was hindered by a mixture of my ridiculously complex life, writer's block, and my fail!whale computer. But alas, here it is.**

**Warnings/Disclaimer: Pre-slash. I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters or plotlines. **

0o8o0

Hermione's psychoanalyzing you again. You can tell, by the way her eyes are narrowed and her mouth is pursed.

It was never any wonder that the pupils of Hogwarts cracked in minutes under her penetrating gaze.

"Where's Ron?" you begin, in a meager attempt to distract her and sashay your way into noncommittal conversation.

She's unfazed. "He's in Croatia, with his unit of Unspeakables." Her voice had hardened more, if possible, at the mention of her ex-boyfriend.

"Doing what?"

"It's not without purpose they're called Unspeakables, Harry."

You sigh, resting your chin on your folded arms, and peering across the desk at her. "What are you trying to get at, Hermione?"

"I want to know why you stumbled into the castle at seven last night, soaking wet, missing a shoe, with your face and chest bruised with _hand marks_," she said coolly, leaning back. "And no diplomatic answers. I want the truth. You haven't been back here in years."

You suddenly regret ever befriending such an inherently intelligent person. So you avoid.

"Why is Draco Malfoy in the lake?"

This throws her off completely. "What in Merlin's name are you talking about?"

"Draco Malfoy. In the lake. Why?"

"Draco Malfoy is not in the lake, Harry," she said wearily, eyes adopting an almost scornful glint – one that was usually reserved for Ron and Harry's poor excuses for not completing homework.

"I beg to differ," you reply, shortly. "Seeing as he is partially the reason I _did _end up here last night." You intentionally leave out the part where he was the sole reason Hermione even saw you that night, let alone ever again.

"Stop giving me the abridged version; you're as bad as Leonard Davies when he's trying to avoid detention."

"I… uh… was in the lake. And I saw Draco Malfoy. He… saved me," you admit, "from grindylows."

She narrowed her eyes again. "There are about three unexplained things in that sentence, Harry. One, I fail to understand why you were in the lake in the first place; it's hardly swimming season."

Your minimal hope in the situation began to dwindle, fast.

"Secondly, Draco Malfoy? The only possible way you saw him in that lake was if he was if he was a floater or if he was intent upon setting a record for the longest time one can hold one's breath."

You frown. Sarcasm is never a good sign with Hermione.

"Thirdly, I come to the most unlikely argument of yours. That Draco _Malfoy_ would _save _you from anything."

"I… stop treating me like a misbehaving student, Hermione! I'm meant to be your friend!" you snap defensively.

She crossed her arms. "That title is dubious, seeing as we haven't spoken in nearly five years."

You stand abruptly, slightly chilled. "Then I don't have to explain myself to you."

She doesn't speak as you leave her office at a brisk pace.

0o8o0

Everyone gapes as you stride down the corridors. Heads whip around, books tumble from arms, fingers point in your direction in an almost accusatory fashion. Shocked gasps and "_It's him!"_s seem to echo your every footstep, like audible shadows.

You vaguely recognize one of the Patil twins, dressed in a Trelawney-esque fashion, who drew in her shawls like you were a veritable Grim moving down the hallway.

You move determinedly among them, causing several near collisions with students, earning an icy glare from a Slytherin girl with long, silken hair in a nearly poisonous shade of yellow-blonde. Her Prefect badge glinted against the heat of a nearby torch.

It reminded you suddenly and violently of Draco Malfoy. Blonde and impervious, he had once hoisted such cold eyes at you, like unallied flags, from a point where you were level-eyed until his far loomed above yours.

Only hours before, his hair had been different, and his eyes. His hair had been like snow-silk, pale and utterly without pigment, like parchment that had laid out in the sun for months and months, forgotten to a point where the life had been bleached from its surface. His eyes, in turn, had seemed darker, but not darker in a sense of malevolence. In fact, his eyes were almost neutral. There was little recognition for you at all – that strikes you as very particular. He had always had searing eyes – but now it almost seemed like he was not seeing you, and was staring right through you instead, at someone else he hated or cared for more.

Your past fascination with the heir of the Malfoy family was quickly and fastidiously rekindled. Why did he not look at you as intensely as he had before?

0o8o0

Your hand was growing numb.

You pull it from the water, shaking it briefly before clenching your fist, drying it hurriedly on your cloak. Where was he?

You pull up from where you were kneeling by the edge of the water, the bank with the steepest incline you could find.

You stare intently at the surface, almost angry. Why wasn't he here now? Was this whole thing some kind of irrational hallucination? Your mind playing tricks with the object of your schoolboy obsession?

A flicker of movement distracts you from your answerless queries.

Kneeling swiftly, you scan the surface of the semi-transparent water, brow furrowing.

You see the fish – it's a heavy thing, moving leisurely through the crumbling algae, mouth ajar as it picked randomly at the pebble-laden bottom.

What really shocks you is the bone-white hand that flies out to snatch it harshly from its meandering path, crushing the life from the creature so suddenly that the fish hardly moved at all before it died.

Your eyes fixate on the hard, ovular shape of his face, connected to that violent hand by an equally-white arm.

"Malfoy," you breathe, staring at him from where he lingers below the surface, cool eyes barely acknowledging the fish as he stares, unblinking, back at you.

You take the time to further examine him. He's even more different than you recall from your brief sight of him the day before.

His hair is longer than you had ever seen it – the swirling strands linger around his shoulders. He's also thinner than ever – his face resembles a hard mask, alike to an airbrushed, underfed model's. None of his features have any color except from his eyes – his previously pale-pink countenances are starkly blank. It's like looking into an old black and white photograph. Lingering a little around the edges of his face and on his shoulders and neck there is a strange grayness. It takes some concentration and squinting through the faint murk of the lake to realize it is scaling. Silvery, minute scales, alike to the fish that he still clutched, had grown in smoothly across his skin in some places, giving him some strange, unnatural shading. His bare chest was svelte and lean, the faint cast of ribs showing when he shifted in the water. It was when you reached his webbed hands, and the harsh lines of his gills, and his powerfully-enhanced feet, that you realized.

He was studying you nonchalantly, almost, motionless eyes betraying little to nothing.

Déjà vu brought you back to your fourth year without consent. You knew what this was, without having to ask.

But why? When?

You gravitate and fixate once more on his face. It is nothing but a blank slate.

On your knees, you lean closer to the edge. Hesitantly, hand shaking ever-so-slightly, you lower it once more into the water.

He does nothing for almost a minute. He observes the proffered hand, then your face, and then the hand again.

He cautiously drifts a little closer with a careless shift of one foot, head turning curiously.

The grasp of his cold hand against your own is shocking.

Tightening inhumanly powerful fingers against your palm and wrist, blunt nails against your skin, he looks almost wistful, for a moment, but it is brief, and only emoted through his unblinking eyes.

He slowly shakes his head with purpose, twice right and twice left, before releasing you. Something heavy and slimy fills your hand, and he ducks down into lower water with a powerful thrust from both arms, before spinning swiftly and kicking out, vanishing into the haze of the lake.

You are left with a dead fish and more questions than you had before.

0o8o0

**That's all I'm giving you today, folks, but the next update (which will hopefully come sooner than this one) will be more informative. ;D**

**Thank you for the reviews/alerts to the following people: Chrissytingting, 20eKUraN11, and Alexandria Jade Lily Potter. (: I am a review whore. Please feed me.**

**E.v.**

**PS – Hermione's appearance is all for you, Grippy. (: I'll admit she's OOC (with purpose) but she is here nonetheless. :D Lurves, dearie. **


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